Countdown
"Can you crunch any louder?" Sydney asked, clearly annoyed. Sark looked up from his cereal.
"What?" With that, he took another bite, this time chewing with his mouth open to heighten the noise factor. Sydney rolled her eyes, and Sark just smirked.
"That's very mature, Sark," came a voice from the doorway. Sark looked up to see Alan, with an amused look on his face.
"Care to join us?" Sark invited, pushing a box of cereal towards his future brother-in-law. Alan grinned and sat down.
"Hey, I've a question for you two," Alan said thoughtfully as he took his first bite of the crunchy cereal. Sark noted with satisfaction that Alan sounded just as loud as he did.
Sydney noticed as well, and just rolled her eyes.
"Are you two ever going to get real jobs?"
All chewing stopped. Sark furrowed his brow, looking at Alan and Sydney.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
Alan shrugged. "Well, I guess you could probably just retire, especially with your money, Sark, but I would think you'd get bored."
"Hmmm," was all the response he gave until he swallowed. "You know, Sydney will probably teach or something."
"No, I will not," she said firmly. That raised curious glances from both Alan and Sark. "Sure, I studied awhile to be a teacher, but I have no desire to do that."
Sark knew this sentiment probably stemmed from her mother's deception, but let it pass.
"So what do you want to do?" Sark asked. He reached across the kitchen table and poured himself a second bowl of cereal.
"Write," Sydney said with a nod. "I want to write books." Sark raised an eyebrow at that, just as Alan laughed. He tried to hide it, but Sydney heard him. She grabbed a piece of cereal from her bowl and chucked it at Alan.
"Oh good," Sark said at the assault. "I was beginning to think it was just me that annoyed her."
Alan glared at him. "I've been around here too long." Sark laughed.
"Sydney, darling," Sark started with extra charm, "I think you would be an excellent writer." She perked up at that. "Plus, you have plenty of stories to draw upon between our collective experiences. You could be the female Tom Clancy." He paused, thinking for a moment. "Tomilla Clancy."
Sydney stared at him. "Are you drunk?"
Sark shrugged. "Just on cereal and milk." She picked up another piece of cereal and launched it at him.
"What about you? What's Mr. Cold Spy going to do?" Sydney asked. Sark drained the milk from his bowl, sipping it quickly and then wiping his mouth.
"It's funny you should ask," he said. A mischievous grin came over his face. "I, actually, have considered teaching."
"Teaching what?" Alan asked with a chuckle.
"Languages—to high school students."
Sydney and Alan burst out laughing. Sark blinked and stared at the both of them.
"Something assumes you all?"
Sydney coughed on her cereal, the traces of fitful laughs still evident. "I forget you never went to high school, but you'd be in for a shock."
"You never went to high school?" Alan asked. Sark rolled his eyes.
"Not much. I ran away from home and became a spy when I was 16, remember?" He shot Alan a look.
"Oh, yeah."
Sydney cleared her throat, redirecting the conversation.
"So anyway," Sark said, picking up where he left off. "I think I could easily teach kids how to speak German, Russian, Japanese, Mandarin, Portuguese—"
"Sure, instead of counting to ten, you'll have them learn 'Freeze!,' 'gun,' and 'give me the artifact,'" Sydney quipped. Sark couldn't help but grin.
"What's wrong with that?"
Alan choked on his milk.
"Whatever you plan, Sark, just keep in mind that they are teenagers," Alan said. Sark just shrugged.
"Well, I'd have to make sure I leave the gun at home, lest I shoot them all, but I think I could manage them," he said with a grin.
Sydney stood up, collecting the bowls and dumping them in the kitchen sink.
"Let's spar," she said. Sark blinked hard.
"Pardon?"
"Spar. Now," she said, heading out of the kitchen.
"You know, you're supposed to allow your food time to digest before physical activity," Sark said. Sydney popped her head back in the kitchen to allow everyone to see her roll her eyes.
"Come on, you wimp," she said. "You've been too soft ever since you gave me that speech during our double date."
She left again. Alan looked inquisitively at Sark.
"What speech?"
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Calvin found his way outside in the morning air as Sydney and Sark readied themselves for the match. His hair was in twenty directions, but hey, that was Calvin for you.
Alan smiled at the younger sibling of his fiancé, and motioned for him to join him on the edge of the yard.
"What's going on?" Calvin asked with a yawn.
"Your brother and Sydney are going to fight," Alan answered. "Any bets?"
Calvin grinned.
Sydney abruptly sprung at Sark, landing an awkward jump just a meter before him and then swinging around and catching him in the side.
"I'm betting on Sydney at the moment," Calvin said.
"Me too."
She spun her body around, kicking out, then spinning again and kicking with her other leg. It was dizzying to watch, but entertaining since she kept hitting Sark. Alan muffled a laugh.
Sark did a back flip, giving himself distance and breathing time. His eyes were dark and challenging. Sydney advanced again.
He actually blocked the kick, twisted his body around and elbowed Sydney in the side. She hardly looked stunned from the blow.
They must not be hitting full-strength. Which was wise, but Alan wanted the free entertainment to be more real. Especially since watching Sark get his butt kicked is always fun.
"Hey Alan," Calvin said. Alan pulled his eyes from the swift fight between Sydney and Sark.
"Yeah."
And then Calvin didn't say anything. Alan glanced at him. Calvin was swiftly looking the part of a man, but there was something about him that just was off.
It was his confidence. While Ilene was headstrong, and Sark was cockier than any other human alive, Calvin was in the shadows. Not your standard youngest child. Sure, he goofed off, but lately, Alan noticed he was quieter.
"Cal, what is it?" he asked.
The blonde young man looked so much like his brother, but the stature of character in each was extremely different. Calvin shrugged.
"I think I want a girlfriend," he said finally. Alan almost laughed, but bit it back for Calvin's sake.
"Why do you say that?"
He shrugged again. "Just, you know, feeling weird." Alan pressed him with a look. "I mean, you and Ilene are, well, you know, and Sydney and Julian seem happy, and I just—I don't know."
"Feeling left out?" Alan asked. Calvin stared ahead as if he was unwilling to look Alan in the eye as he nodded.
Alan turned his eyes to the fight again, just in time to see Sark land on his back. As much as he wanted to make a joke about that, he restrained himself. Calvin needed some reassurance.
"You're still young, Cal. It's not like you're my age, or Sark's. You're, what, only 20, 21?" Alan said. Cal nodded.
"But I haven't had a girlfriend in . . . well, it's been awhile," he said. Alan wanted to laugh, but he tried really hard not to.
"You don't have to have some girl latched onto your arm to be happy," Alan said. Calvin shot him a curious look, and Alan wanted to hit himself. "You're right, not the best thing to say. But, look at it this way. You've been moving around a lot, hiding from people . . . well, like me."
Calvin smiled.
"Yeah, I guess so," he consented. "I kind of want to get out of my bubble, you know? See the world, meet a girl, and then become a recluse like Sydney and Julian."
It was Alan's turn to shoot him a look.
"Well, they don't have to go out much anymore to find someone to be with," Calvin justified.
"Why don't you go out then? Meet someone, ask her out, something like that," Alan said. Calvin shrugged again.
"Last time I approached a girl, she turned out to be an assassin trying to use me to kill Julian."
Damn. Walked right into that one. The kid did have a point.
"Listen, Calvin," Alan said, his tone as sincere and serious as he could make it, even though he just saw Sark hit air instead of Sydney. "You can't rush this. You'll find someone, I promise. It just might not be on your terms."
He seemed to chew on that wisdom for a moment. Or several moments. Finally, though, he nodded and a slow smile spread over his face.
"Yeah, I guess you're right. Look at Sydney—she hated Julian. If she had her way, he probably would have been killed long ago."
Alan allowed himself to laugh at last. He patted Calvin on the back, and turned to focus on the fight.
"Exactly," he said.
Sydney blocked one of Sark's hits, and then went to land one in his stomach. But Sark blocked it and threw his weight at her. She lost her balance and fell to the grass.
"Yes!" Sark yelled, his arms in the air like a winning boxer. Alan grinned. Then Sydney kicked her leg in the air and down again, to catch Sark's mass. He grunted and fell down next to Sydney.
Alan just clapped as he and Calvin laughed.
---------
The past couple of weeks were . . . good. Ever since their argument in the park, Sydney seemed closer to him.
Granted, she was still cautious, but Sark suspected that would be the case for awhile. Ilene's wedding helped alleviate the awkwardness, since it gave them a break from each other. Sydney spent a decent amount of time helping his sister to fret over details.
He didn't quite understand why there were so many details. Because of, well, him, this wedding was extremely small. Alan's family, Sark's family, Sydney, her dad (if he chose to come), and maybe a friend here and there were all that were coming.
But no. Never was it just simple, even when small. Already, Ilene had a wedding chapel and reception hall reserved. She and Alan were choosing their menu for the occasion right now.
Sark shook his head, a smile on his face. Ilene was happy, and that's all that mattered. His mom was happy too, although frantically getting the house cleaned up and ready for when Alan's family arrived in two weeks.
Sark dropped some pants and shirts in a small suitcase. He was on his way to Los Angeles tonight.
"So when will you be back?" Sydney asked. She entered his room slowly, her eyes on the bag. She didn't look him in the eye much, but Sark knew that comfort would come eventually.
"Two days," he said calmly. "That should be enough time to get my funds in order."
"Are you . . . okay, financially?" Sydney asked suddenly. Sark shot her a look.
"Of course I am," he answered. "I just need to get things situated so I have easier access up here." It was the truth. Money was hardly ever an issue for him.
"I just thought that maybe you were thinking about the job thing because . . . well, because—"
"Because I'm broke?" Sark filled in. "Hardly the case. Although I was somewhat serious about the whole teacher issue. I think it'd be good to do something other than fret about you all being safe."
She smiled at that.
"All right," she said, moving to leave. But she stopped. "Do you need any help?" They both knew he was more than capable of packing on his own, but the question at least meant something to Sark.
"Actually, could you help me dye my hair?" Sark said. She smiled evilly at that, and Sark suddenly wanted to retract the request.
"Fire-engine red or purple?" she teased. He shot her another look.
"Black, please."
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Sark wasn't sure why, but he actually liked the black hair—mainly when it started to grow out and his blonde roots showed. But it didn't matter. The black hair was just for a day more anyway.
So far, his trip to Los Angeles had been very successful. No one recognized him and no one seemed to be looking for him. His assets were moving where he wanted them to and now he relaxed in his hotel room.
There was something else he had to do. He'd volunteered to hand-deliver Ilene and Alan's wedding invitation to Jack Bristow. Right now he was just trying to gather his strength, mental and physical, to deal with that confrontation.
He had to do it sooner or later.
Might as well stop stalling.
He grabbed a bottle of wine and headed to Jack's. He figured a little gift might be in order.
When Jack answered the door, Sark gulped. The man was as stone-faced as ever. Sark briefly hoped the fact that he and Sydney were dating would win some favor, but then again, he had run away from her.
Did she tell him about Kora? Sark swallowed again.
"Jack," he said smoothly, hiding his insecurities. "Wine?" He quickly held up a bottle of Petreuse, a 1990. Jack seemed to like that year before, and Sark hoped it'd curry some favor for him.
Jack motioned for Sark to come in. As it was the last time he saw Jack, the apartment was immaculate. Sark put the bottle down on the kitchen counter, and pulled out his sister's wedding invitation to place next to it.
That's when Jack swung. Sark turned just in time to catch the man's fist with his face. The force behind it swiveled Sark back, and he caught himself from falling on the kitchen counter.
Sark tried to clear his vision. What was that?!
"Thanks, Jack," he said, his voice a little shaky. "Nice to see you too."
"Shut up, Sark," Jack said. He grabbed Sark by the shirt and suddenly flung him across the room. Sark hit the floor on his back, and slid a good two meters before stopping. His breath was ragged now.
Crap. He must know.
"Jack—"
"I trusted you with my daughter," he said in a low voice. He quickly crossed the room to Sark. Sark tried to get to his feet, but Jack was at his side, and basically stepped on him.
Sark's body pressed against the floor. Fight back!
Are you nuts? He's the father of the woman you love! Fighting back isn't going to win you points, especially since you plan on—
"You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this," Jack seethed. He towered over Sark, who didn't plan on getting up anytime soon just to be knocked back down.
"Would beating me make you feel better, Jack?" Sark asked from the floor.
"Yes." There was no hesitation in the answer.
Sark sighed. "All right. But before you do, can I just say two things, while I can still speak?" Jack didn't nod, but Sark took the momentary pause as a 'yes.' He noticed from the corner of his eye that Jack's face was bright red. Ready to kill me, no doubt. Sark took a deep breath. "One, there's an invitation to my sister's wedding by the bottle of wine. And, two: would you be opposed to me asking Sydney to marry me?"
The last thing he saw was Jack's fist coming down at him.